


Against All Things

by crookedfingers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Cunnilingus, Derogatory Language, F/M, Greagoir/Irving (implied), Hate Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedfingers/pseuds/crookedfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A cur would fight.  But you—<em>you</em> have shown your throat, and I will tear it out."</p><p>(Knight Commander Greagoir arrives at Kirkwall to investigate the fates of Kinloch Hold's former mages. Meredith makes her opinions known.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against All Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written around 2010 or 2011, but never shared publicly. I've opted to post it without further updates.
> 
> Comments are welcome.

There is a templar outside the door of Meredith's quarters when she returns from evening vespers at the Chantry.  She can see him fidgeting even from a distance, and when he notices her approach, he salutes so quickly that he nearly bashes himself in the forehead.  
  
"Knight-Commander Meredith," he greets her in a rush of breath.  "I've been sent to notify you that a visitor from Ferelden has arrived at the Gallows and requests an audience with you."  
  
She motions for the man to stand at ease. "Well?  Who?"  
  
"Knight-Commander Greagoir of Kinloch Hold, Meredith, ser."  
  
Meredith stops dead.  She has too much control over her face to show so much as a flicker of surprise, but her heart gives a surge.  "Why didn't you tell me that immediately?" she demands, and the templar wilts like a flower in Darktown.  "No, never mind.  Where is he now?"  
  
"He hasn't left the main courtyard, ser.  He was speaking to the Knight Captain when I last saw."  
  
Impulse tells her to go there immediately, but she did not become knight commander of Kirkwall by following her every impulse.  What would she accomplish but to interrupt a few minutes of conversation?  She nods curtly.  "Thank you.  Dismissed."  
  
"Yes, Knight Commander, ser."  
  
The templar all but flees down the hall, but he's of no more interest to her.  She walks the last few steps to her study and unlocks the door.  It is quiet inside, and with the late-day sun facing the other side of the building, it is dim and cool as well.  A few papers lay spread across her desk, and she shuffles them together into a more compact but imperfect pile.  Then she puts away her candles and inkpot.    
  
Meredith pours a glass of water and drinks it slowly, gazing at the wall.  Her windows overlook the Gallows' entry gates and courtyard, but she does not look outside.  When the glass is empty, she places it where there is no risk of it being knocked over and walks from the room.  
  
Even amidst the cluster of templars gathered around him, Meredith sees Greagoir immediately when she turns the corner into the main courtyard.  He is standing at the bottom of the main stairs, arms crossed, and he looks every bit like a man whom other men obey.  His back is to the sun, and Knight-Captain Cullen is standing in front of him in conversation, and their shadows merge together and stretch long and dark across the flagstones.    
  
"Knight-Commander Greagoir," Meredith calls when she has stepped into view.  "A pleasure to have you in Kirkwall.  I apologize for having kept you waiting."  
  
In an instant, every eye in the court turns toward her.  She smiles as she walks forward.  Greagoir's face remains impassive, but he bows formally when the Knight Captain falls back to make room for her.    
  
"No apologies are necessary.  It is an honor to be here, Knight-Commander Meredith."  
  
She bows in return, less deeply.  "I'm certain it is."    
  
They could go through a great many formalities in recognition of the situation, but neither of them is eager to linger outside being polite to one another.  Greagoir would not be here without a reason, and although he might take the opportunity to interrogate her templars behind her back, Meredith suspects he is impatient to get to his purpose.  And Meredith has no desire to stand about longer than necessary, because out here in the courtyard they are like two competing standards of an army, and to be seen together invites every eye that passes over them to make a comparison.  In Kirkwall, she has no equal and no competitor, but Greagoir's presence is an implicit threat, an unspoken challenge.  For him to come stand bodily before her is as good as to ask, _which of us would you sooner follow_?  Greagoir is past his prime, already creased and battered, but he is a man, and for no few of those who watch them, that alone is enough to make him seem stronger, wiser, more capable.  Let them look, Meredith thinks.   _I_ know this man is a hypocrite and a traitor.  He is weak, but I am not.  
  
"Please," she says.  "I'm sure you'd like to talk.  We should go inside."  
  
"Of course," Greagoir agrees, perfectly amicable.    
  
"Return to your posts, templars," Meredith calls clear and loud, and the whole courtyard squirms with movement as the clusters break apart and disperse.  Cullen looks at her as though to plead for the privilege of slinking along at her heels, but he, too, bows to his former commander and returns to his usual station.    
  
Meredith takes the lead as they leave the courtyard.  Inside the closer space of the templar hall, Greagoir's footfalls sound heavy and thunderous, like a recruit new to his armor.  Arrogance gives him the bravado to be loud.  
  
"Please," she says once they've reached her study, indicating one of the visitors' chairs.  The chairs sit well back from her desk, as much out of the way as they can be.  Few stay long enough to use them.  Greagoir looks at the proffered seat, then drags it several feet closer, as casually as though he were rearranging the furniture in his own quarter,s and sits down.  He looks utterly at ease.  Only the slight glean of sweat at his temples betrays that he's just been out in the sun in armor—a rare thing in Kinloch Hold.    
  
"Shall I send for something for you to drink?" she asks.  
  
Greagoir waves the offer away.  "I'm fine.  Thank you."  
  
There is another chair close to Greagoir's, but Meredith takes the seat behind her desk, instead.  "I'm afraid that you've caught me unprepared.  It's very unusual to receive such a visit without being notified in advance.  Your business must have been quite urgent for you to come here in person—and with such haste that a message couldn't have arrived before you."  
  
"Ah, you didn't receive my letter?" Greagoir asks without a hint of surprise.  "How unfortunate.  I must seem very rude.  However, it's true that I did not think an exchange of letters would be sufficient to resolve the matter that brought me here.  As you are aware, a number of Ferelden mages have been received by the Kirkwall Circle during the past two or three years."  
  
"Blight refugees, yes.  What about them?"  
  
"Not only refugees.  One of our mages, for instance, requested a temporary transfer in response to Kirkwall's request for new talent.  He sent regular reports back to Kinloch Hold for some time, but the reports stopped coming.  At first I attributed it to difficulties raised by the Blight.  But since the time for his transfer to be reassessed was approaching, it became crucial to reestablish correspondence.  When I wrote to inquire about the lack of communication, I was informed that he had died.  Please explain to me, Knight Commander," Greagoir says, leaning forward, "why a mage I sent to your Circle is now dead."  
  
Meredith arches her eyebrow ever so slightly.  "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Knight Commander.  Unfortunately, I haven't yet committed the details about every mage that falls under my authority to my personal memory.  Kirkwall is somewhat larger than Kinloch Hold, and I have many other responsibilities."  
  
"You might remember this one.  His name was Karl Thekla."  
  
Meredith flicks her eyes toward the ceiling as though in search of some distant recollection.  "Ah.  Yes, I do remember.  Karl Thekla was responsible for compromising the safety of the Circle.  He was found to be in communication with apostates."  
  
Without seeming to move at all, Greagoir's face goes hard and suspicious.  "If he was suspected of any criminal activity, the Ferelden Circle could have recalled him to stand trial.  We should have been notified."  
  
"Try him in Ferelden for crimes committed in Kirkwall?" Meredith asks, incredulous.  "And what sort of justice would you have rendered?  What do you know of the situation here?"  
  
"'Justice' is rendered only against those who are guilty.  Can you provide me proof of any crime?  The danger he posed?"  
  
"I see no reason to prove anything to you.  You're neither qualified nor sufficiently informed to pass judgment on the matter.  In any case, it was not _I_ who had him executed.  He was murdered by a dangerous apostate and other criminals who broke into the Chantry.  Apparently he had outlived his usefulness to them."  
  
Greagoir's expression remains so utterly neutral that Meredith knows he is, in fact, badly startled.  It takes him a moment to recover.  "I was told that he was made Tranquil.  Karl was a Harrowed mage.  That's completely forbidden."  
  
It's all she can do not to scoff.  "And what would you have suggested as an alternative?  He was a threat to my city, not your Tower.  The responsibility to protect its citizens fell to me, not you.  But no matter what criticism you may bring against me, I can't return him to you.  Did you come here expecting compensation for lost property?"  
  
"He was one of ours, Meredith," Greagoir says, low and cold.  "I came to find out what happened."  
  
"Yes, well, it's a habit of yours to take personal interest in your mages, isn't it, Greagoir?"    
  
This time the surprise is too great for even Greagoir to hide.  His mouth twitches open, then quickly shuts.  She watches the crease of his brow deepen with a sense of cool satisfaction.  "Excuse me, but I do not understand your meaning, Knight Commander.  Is there something you intended to imply?" he asks, his voice falling flat on the question.  
  
"I'm saying your interest in mages is not strictly professional, Knight Commander."  
  
Greagoir tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, his eyes hard and terrible.  "I'm afraid I must still ask you to explain."  
  
Meredith smiles thinly.  "Are you sure you want me to?"  
  
"Quite sure."  
  
She purses her lips, adopting an expression of pensive reluctance.  But presently she sighs and says, "What I mean is that you've whored yourself to the filth of our society."  
  
Greagoir is on his feet almost before she's finished speaking.  The expression on his face is exquisite.  "What did you just say," he breathes.  
  
Meredith leans back and eyes him coolly.  "Did you not hear me?"  
  
"I fear I may have heard incorrectly.  I'm sure you'd like the chance to correct the mistake."  
  
"What I said, Knight Commander, is that you've committed the grossest of indecencies with that mage who holds your leash and poisons your mind," she hisses, rising to her feet in turn.  Greagoir stalks toward her, and her hand twitches for the hilt of her sword out of reflex.  It takes every bit of willpower she has to hold her fist rigid at her side.  She circles her desk and walks forward to meet him, and they stare one another down like war hounds, a scant foot of space between them.  "I know what's happened there.  Because of him, apostates have been allowed to run amok and abominations infiltrated the very Circle itself, putting innumerable lives in danger.  He's weakened your Circle; he's weakened _you_."  
  
Greagoir's nostrils flare as he inhales in one long, slow breath. "I highly advise you to stop talking now, Knight Commander," he says.  
  
"I highly advise you to _listen_ to me, Knight Commander," she snaps, her voice rising over his.  "I'd be surprised if he wasn't in league with the demons that tried to seize control, but it would have been a far better thing for Ferelden if _you_ had done your duty properly and put him down like the beast he is."  
  
Greagoir's arm flashes suddenly through her peripheral vision, and Meredith, knowing that there's too little time to dodge and too little space between them to parry, braces herself for the blow to her face.  Greagoir is strong, and he is wearing his gauntlets, and Meredith knows the metal will cut her face.  But the strike does not come.  At nearly the same instant Meredith realizes that he intends to strike her, Greagoir's arm jerks to sudden stop, and he stands there with his fist balled in the air but few inches from her cheek.  His whole arm shakes, and his expression shivers with hatred and restraint and fury.  His armor creaks with the force of his breathing.  
  
Triumph unfurls in Meredith's stomach, and she feels herself smiling at him, a radiant and beatific smile that has nothing in common with what she feels:  blunt ugly loathing.  He can do nothing to her.  She can control him without even trying.  And, realizing this, she feels the sudden need to wreck him.  
  
Knocking his hand aside, Meredith steps forward, drags his head down, and places her mouth over his.  There is nothing gentle about the kiss, nothing affectionate.  It is an act of aggression.  
  
There is an instant during which Greagoir does not react, does not even breathe.  Then he brings his hands between their bodies and shoves her away.  Meredith steps back, and Greagoir withdraws in the opposite direction.  
  
Meredith studies him for a moment, and then she moves swiftly forward, and Greagoir throws out his arm to hold her back.  She tosses her shoulder to shake off his grip and continues to advance.  Greagoir reaches for the pommel of his sword, and she strikes the inside of his elbow with the edge of her hand, buckling his arm before he can get a grip.  She swings her other fist like a hammer with the intent of crippling his sword arm, but he catches her hand in his palm, so she bends her knees to stabilize herself and pulls back, hard, to drag him off balance.  He stumbles forward into her and their armor gives a metallic shriek as it crashes together.  She lunges up and kisses him again.  
  
She catches him slightly open mouthed, his lips twisted into an snarl, and her hand flies immediately to his face to push two fingertips between his teeth and pry his jaw open.  The noise he makes sends a rush of heat through Meredith's body.    
  
And then, without any warning, he throws his arm around her waist and drags her against him, and Meredith catches both sides of his face in her hands.  Her fingertips dent into his temples and jaw, and she feels the contours of his teeth through his cheek.  The hard press of their mouths might be considered a kiss in the most basic sense, but they both know it for the fight it is.  She bites at his lips, and he crushes her mouth until it begins to feel numb.  They pant and struggle against one another without speaking.    
  
When Greagoir pushes her head to the side and scrapes under her jaw with his teeth, her retaliation is to find one of the clasps in his armor.  His pauldrons crash to the floor with a sound like the end of the world, and Greagoir flinches in surprise.  He manages to pull away just enough to look her in the eyes.  
  
"Are you quite certain you want to be doing that?"  
  
"Be quiet," she growls.  "You'll not speak unless I ask you a question or I'll throw you out in whatever state I leave you."  
  
Greagoir has the audacity to throw his head back and laugh:  a real, full-throated laugh that makes his eyes crease.  But he doesn't protest.  Instead his hand darts forward to catch one of the fastenings of her own armor.  Her first impulse is to strike his hand aside, but she permits the impertinence.  If she intends to be undressed, his participation is more efficient than having to do everything herself.    
  
Greagoir walks her backwards, and she allows it to happen so that she can find the edge of the desk with her hip and lean against it as she dismantles him.  Even as they walk, however, Meredith unfastens her sword, and Greagoir swings his shield down from his back, and they lay their weapons carefully aside.  Meredith's circlet joins them.  Then they strip each other with the practiced ease of those who have spent their lives in leather and armor and mail.  His armor is bulkier than hers, and heavier, but the pieces are fewer and simpler.  They have break apart from one another to remove their gauntlets and boots, and Meredith slides out of her own trousers so Greagoir won't have the privilege of pulling them down her legs.  Once she's bare, she peels Greagoir down to the flesh.  
  
Meredith puts one hand on Greagoir's hip and holds him still in the space between her legs, and with the other she takes a handful of his hair and clutches it with cruel tightness.  "Listen to me," she says.  "This is my city; this is my Circle.  I decide what happens here.  You will show me respect.  You will do as I say."   He says nothing—just glares at her, silent and baleful.  It's answer enough.  She gazes back with unflinching steadiness as she shifts back and settles herself on the edge of the desk.  At the same time, she curls her fingers against his scalp and pushes down on the top of his head.    
  
For a moment Meredith thinks that she's made a mistake, pushed him too far.  Understanding and indignation flash across his face, and he seizes her wrist like a vice.  Without her gauntlets, his fingers encircle her wrist entirely.  They lock eyes.  Greagoir's teeth are bared, and Meredith wants to bloody his lips against them.  He squeezes her wrist until her hand begins to tingle.  Then, to her amazement, he sinks to his knees, bows his head, and moves forward between her legs where she is hot and aching.  Meredith draws in a long, sharp breath through her teeth and twists her hips.  Greagoir's fingers dig suddenly, bruisingly, into her thighs and force her legs wider, and when she pulls his hair it is both in warning and to draw him closer.    
  
He is trying to take her apart, Meredith realizes.  He is trying to make her vulnerable and defenseless.  But she'll not have that, no.  She'll take what she wants; she knows how to be in control.  
  
Leaning back on her hands, Meredith draws her leg up from the floor and braces her foot on Greagoir's shoulder.  She watches as Greagoir shifts beneath the new weight, clearly wanting to throw it off but tolerating it all the same.  With the leverage the position provides, she can move more freely, and she rocks her hips slowly in demand.  Oh, it's good like this.  His mouth is better at pleasing than threatening, and his beard scratches the inside of her thighs, and his eyes are tight shut while his tongue satisfies her.  Meredith's breathing quickens and goes unsteady, and a shiver rolls through her with every twitch of her hips.  After a few moments, she begins to move with more urgency.  Clenching her teeth tight, she lifts herself off the desk completely, all her weight supported by her hands and Greagoir's shoulder, and bears down against Greagoir's mouth.  The muscles of her thighs tense, and she hooks her whole leg over Greagoir's shoulder and pulls him flush against her as she arches her back and shudders her way through orgasm.  
  
Chest heaving, Meredith settles back onto the desk and sweeps back her hair, which has fallen streaming in front of her face and across her shoulders.  She withdraws the leg flung across Greagoir's shoulder and peers down at him, kneeling flushed and disheveled between her legs.  Presently Greagoir raises his head and, looking up at her, drags the back of his wrist across his mouth.  Then he leans over and spits on her foot.    
  
Rage clutches Meredith hard in the chest.  With a cry, she kicks out and knocks Greagoir back onto the floor.  She leaps up and prepares to drive her foot down into his stomach, but Greagoir immediately flows up onto his feet in anticipation of a fight. At the same moment that he stands, Meredith lashes out.  The back of her hand strikes him full across the face with such force that her whole hand is numbed, and Greagoir's cheek turns white before blooming furious red.  He staggers to the side.  
  
"Disrespectful cur," she snarls.    
  
Greagoir regains his footing and rounds on her.  "Bitch," he spits.  
  
Laughing, she seizes him by the throat and pivots with all her weight.  They swing around one another until Greagoir's back is to the desk, and then Meredith hooks her ankle around his, yanks his foot out from beneath him, and throws him down lengthwise across the desk.  He lands with a grunt.  The pile of papers flutter to the floor.     
  
"No, I was wrong," she decides, leaning over him.  "A cur would fight.  But you— _you_ have shown your throat, and I will tear it out."    
  
Greagoir moves to rise, but she smashes him down again.  Then she lunges up onto the desk and straddles him so that her legs trap him in place.  Steadying herself, she holds herself over his hips until he looks up and meets her eyes, the sharp red outline left by her hand almost lost in the flush spread across his face, and then she sinks down onto the hardness of him.  Pathetic though he is, he is not a small man.  She is still sensitive, and there is a jolt of pain, but she crumples that feeling into something small and tense, something she can control and unleash when she needs it.  Greagoir's breath rushes out of him, and the muscles of his stomach jump and draw taut.  The back of his head thumps against the desk.  She scrapes his abdomen with her fingertips, then plants her hands on either side of his ribcage and rocks herself atop him, steady and forceful.  His hands fly to her hips automatically, clutching at her but offering no guidance.  After a moment she feels him shift, bending his legs slightly so that he can dig his heels into the desk, and at last he bucks beneath her.  She gasps despite herself, then laughs hoarse and half breathless.  
  
"Oh, are you fighting now?" she asks, the sound of her voice toothy and bold like a grin.  "Very well, Knight Commander.  _Show_ me."  
  
She can see his jaw shift as he grits his teeth against the desire to speak.   Instead, he changes his grip, grabbing her hip and backside with real force, and scratches savagely down her buttocks and outer thigh.  His fingernails are worn short and blunt, but there's enough strength in his fingers to score vicious furrowed welts into her skin.  The unexpected sting rips a small noise from her throat, and in outrage she snatches up her hand to deliver another slap to his face.  But this time he expects it, and he catches her forearm before she can land the blow.  Snarling, she wrenches her arm back, but he wrestles it down and pins her hand to the desk beneath his.  And then his other hand is between her thighs and he _smiles_ as he cants his hips and slides two fingers into her alongside his cock, and she cries out once, short and sharp.  The pain is bright and brief and achingly good.  
  
Before she can collect herself, Greagoir crooks his fingers, and then he does it again, and again, and again, rolling his hips all the while.  Meredith's breath stutters with each curl of his fingers.  "Is that all?" she pants, tossing her head behind the curtain of her hair.  She can feel every bead of sweat between her shoulder blades, and in the dip of her spine, and across her forehead.  Then the acuteness of the sensations becomes almost unbearable as Greagoir's thumb, calloused to roughness, begins to rub the sensitive spot between her legs.  She has to close her eyes for a second or two.    
  
"Dog," she rasps.  "Dog, dog, Maker be-damned dog!"  
  
Meredith slams her first into the center of Greagoir's chest then spreads it open-fingered to hold her weight as she adjusts the angle of her body and rides him like an act of punishment.  He groans helplessly, then reaches up and tangles his hand in her hair, the only soft thing about her, and winds it around his hand to drag her down toward him.  She pulls back against the tension, holding herself up with her arms despite the dull pain that grows across her scalp.  If she bends down, she could escape the pain.  She could kiss him.  She could drag the breath right out of him.  _Suffocate_ him.  Reaching out, she touches his open mouth with her fingertips—and then grabs his throat, hard.  Meredith feels the thrum of his breath under her palm as he inhales sharply.  Then he swallows with difficulty, his throat rolling beneath her hand.  Her fingers twitch tighter and tighter still, and the desperate flutter of his pulse travels from her fingertips to the pit of her belly where it churns and churns.  Greagoir tosses his head in an effort to dislodge her hand.  When that fails, he gives the fingers between her legs a cruel twist and presses hard with his thumb—and all of a sudden it's too much.  Meredith hits an edge and tumble over it, her body going tight and sensitive and agonized, clenching and clenching and clenching.   She grits her teeth to keep herself from making any sound as she flexes forward into a curve like a drawn bow.    
  
She is still shuddering when she tears her hair free from his grasp, rises up onto her knees, and rolls off the desk onto her feet.  Her legs nearly buckle beneath her, but she hides the stumble by whirling around and placing her hands on the desk.  For a split second the raw surprise and bewilderment is still visible on Greagoir's face, and then he surges up from the desk.  Meredith catches him by the shoulders before he can gather his arms beneath him and, with her position over him giving her the advantage, slams him back down yet again.  
  
"I don't think you want to walk out of here like that, Knight Commander," she breathes.  "You had better take care of yourself."  
  
Greagoir stares up at her, his face utterly blank, and then he drives at her with his elbow.  She jumps clear of the sweep of his arm, braces herself, and wonders if she should go for her sword.  But Greagoir does not pursue her.  He simply props himself up on one elbow, looks across at her, and then drags his hand down past his stomach to stroke himself roughly.  For one short moment, Meredith does nothing but look at him, and she sees him in his entirety—the damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead, the flexing sinews of his forearm, the ropey white scars that arc over his chest and shoulders and thighs—and she wishes he would stand with her rather than against her.  The feeling does not last long.  His hand pumps a few seconds more, and then the muscles of his stomach jump and clench, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he comes with a stubborn silence to match hers.    
  
He opens his eyes after a moment and his gaze focuses on her.  And then, staring her calmly in the eye, he reaches to the side and wipes his filthy hand on her desk.    
  
Clearly, Fereldans do not learn from their mistakes.  
  
Meredith lunges at him, intending to grab him by head and smear his face in the mess he's made, but he manages to swing himself off the desk and meets her rush head-on, standing on his own feet.  She drives into him with force enough to knock the breath from him, but the desk keeps him from falling over, and he catches her by the shoulders and kisses her, no lover's kiss at all—something more like a curse, something that holds a promise of retribution.    
  
When they break apart Meredith turns away from him without a word and goes to one of her cabinets.  She takes from it a cloth that she uses to clean between her thighs.  When she's finished, she folds the cloth as neatly as a banquet napkin and passes it to Greagoir, lurking silent and watchful beside the desk.  She doesn't watch him; instead, she begins to gather up her clothing.  After a moment, Greagoir does the same.  They begin to dress without shame or modesty, sometimes watching one another and sometimes simply intent on the task, indifferent to each other's presence.  It is easy enough to dress themselves in the light, simple under-layers of cloth and mail, but putting on armor demands another pair of hands, and it is Greagoir who has to adjust and buckle her breastplate and pauldrons.  She returns the favor, and they make one another presentable.  They take up their weapons last of all.    
  
Finally, Greagoir stands before her looking precisely the same as he did when he first entered her study, save for the stinging red mark of her hand on his face.  Meredith smooths her hair down as a final act of tidiness.    
  
It would be ludicrous for her to offer Greagoir his seat once more, but she considers doing it just to see his reaction.  She has no more interest in him, however.  There are better uses of her time.    
  
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Meredith asks, the radiant smile back on her face.  
  
Greagoir watches her from beneath his eyebrows, wary and sullen.  "No," he answers shortly.  
  
"I hope you were able to find what you were looking for in Kirkwall."  
  
She studies his face carefully, but his expression doesn't waver.  "I think I've learned everything I need."  
  
"Well, please don't let me delay you if you have any other business elsewhere."  She crouches for a moment to gather up her fallen papers and returns them to her desk.  "Shall I accompany you to the gates?"  
  
"I'm sure I can find my way."  
  
"Be careful wherever you go, Knight Commander.  These are dangers times for all of us."  
  
"I appreciate your concern.  Good night, Knight Commander Meredith."  He bows, blank-faced and rigid.  Meredith salutes him.    
  
When the door closes behind him, Meredith returns to her seat at her desk, picks up one of the documents, and begins to read.  There are aches all across her body, but she feels relaxed, focused, untroubled.  She fears no fight.  Let her enemies see which standard the people follow when the real war begins.  Meredith smiles to herself. She will stand against all treachery, and she will be as rock.


End file.
